


you would take the breath from my throat;

by fracturedvaels



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: M/M, Second person POV, Violent Sex, canon divergence - alternate universe, gen. neutral hawke, quasi-graphic sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-26
Updated: 2015-04-26
Packaged: 2018-03-25 20:25:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3823714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fracturedvaels/pseuds/fracturedvaels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>his love is obsessive. he digs his nails into your skin, and they’re like claws; he holds you close and it’s like being caged. you pray and you pray and you pray and he stains you like blood and marks you like scars. you love him. he scares you. you find you don’t mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you would take the breath from my throat;

**Author's Note:**

> a sebanders written as a companion fic to [two](http://8tracks.com/followingcaligula/neither-the-heir-nor-the-spare) [sebanders](http://8tracks.com/followingcaligula/drown-us-in-blood-to-keep-you-safe) playlists, meant to be listened to together, one after the other or interwoven. this fic is unbeta'd.

i.

 

he is fire and magic and blood, and every word he throws out is poison. you pluck your bowstring and try not to shuffle nervously; you kick up dirt, and listen to his friend talk, and feel his eyes sinking into you like hooks. you'll never know it but he's already got a rope around you; he's tied himself to you and you don't think you'll ever be clean again. it scares you.

you go to bed that night in an inn in the nearest village. you've a job to do and you don't think you're welcome in the chantry; you think you'll sleep okay enough, that you won't think of the strange man and his strange eyes. you won't think about his hands gripping his staff tightly, and you certainly won't think about what it'd be like to have them wrapped around your neck, or around your wrists.

you certainly won't think about him as you go from city to city, you certainly won't let him haunt your dreams. first you think it's a demon, then you think it's blood magic, then you think _he's_ a demon, but no, he's just a mage, and the only thing to blame is your lonely heart. you want to be claimed. he _scares_ you, but you want to be his, and if he's there when you return – if by some miracle the maker steers him your way – then damn you, you'll let him have you.

 

ii.

 

his name is anders.

his name is anders, and he's a warden. you argue _bitterly_ whenever you're together, but all of his looks linger on you long enough that your skin begins to crawl. and you urge him on in your own way, thinking _claim me_ , thinking _take me_ , thinking, _own me_. you are scared of how much you want to belong to someone. you are scared of how much you want to be _loved_ by someone. and you're absolutely terrified to realize he wants to be your _someone_.

'sebastian,' he comes to you one night, as you're heading back into the chantry. 'sebastian,' he says it like he's calling to a dog and damn you, you stop walking, and you let him approach. there is no slow build up, there is no incline; 'i've been thinking of you.' he says as he pulls you in. 'i can't stop thinking of you.' accusatory as he holds you close; bitter and hateful, but he softens when you don't pull away. 'you taint everything you touch.'

he's so quiet you almost don't catch how he imputes blame onto you. it doesn't stop you from wrapping your arms around his neck; he puts his own around your waist and pulls you against him. he _kisses_ you and maker, you taste his addiction. and _mint_. you'll always think of this when you smell mint or have mint tea. you'll always feel a stir and feel his warmth and remember what it was like to be held like this. like you're _precious_. like he wants you more than you want to be wanted by him. you don't think that's possible. _you don't care._

his love is obsessive. he digs his nails into your skin, and they're like claws; he holds you close and it's like being caged. you pray and you pray and you pray and he stains you like blood and marks you like scars. you love him. he scares you. you find you don't mind.

 

iii.

 

you are a cemetery.

everything is buried in you, but nothing so much as him.

'when i die,' he says, because he only speaks in certainties. 'let me stay with you.'

'okay.' you say even though you don't understand. you shiver wildly because you ducked into his clinic to get out of the rain. he takes your armor from you and leaves you in your shirt and breeches and smalls, and even those he demands the right to remove. you lean into his touches and breathe in the smell of dirt and lamp oil and your skin hurts where his fingers brush, because you want _so hard_.

'maker, sebastian.' he kisses your palms and fingertips. then he kisses your wrists, peeling your soaking shirt off of you. "forgive me. forgive me, please forgive me.'

he sounds mournful. you want to ask him about it and you want to ask him to stop but when your fingers go to his hair to push him away, your arms don't cooperate. he marks a trail down your stomach and down your pelvis and then maker, _maker_ , his head is between your thighs and your knees are shaking and his fingers are inside of you and -

then he's up, and he pulls you along like a child pulling a toy on a rope. bound at the wrists and he carries the chain; he lays you onto the bed and crawls between your legs. you think you're collapsing in on yourself when he finally works you open, when he holds you down with one strong hand on your chest (and doesn't it feel like he's trying to reach through you? to push his palm past the flesh and the muscle to free your heart from the ribcage. but that's fenris' trick but you know you'd let anders do it if he could). he takes himself in hand and slides into you.

"good." his kisses are devouring. "perfect." his thrusts hurt but they feel _so_ good. " _beautiful._ " his praise and his moans are euphonious. you put your hands on his shoulders and your legs around his waist but you still feel like he's the one trapping _you_. you roll your hips down to meet his and he fucks you so hard and so good and so intensely.

he finishes inside of you (because he always does, and he'll joke about it after. he'll say something like _it's because i always want to be inside of you_ or he won't say anything but he'll kiss you and you'll forget why it even matters). you're left panting and painted and sticky, but he cleans you and cups your face and calls you darling. he crawls into bed with you and holds you close and maker, you're so weak, you feel so warm and you fall asleep.

 

iv.

 

'you little leech.' he slams you into the wall. you cry out and your head spins, and he cuts you off with a kiss. hawke stopped him from killing a girl, and then sent her back to the circle; then they took you to his clinic to talk to him, and then they _left_ you there, and anders takes you to the coffin he calls a bedroom and he throws himself onto you.

'vile little thing,' he grinds against you, holds you down. _push him off_ , you think _, push him away,_ _ **run**_ but your body betrays you and you push your hips up to meet his and you moan. he pulls your armor off of you, snapping buckles and tearing the fabric of your shirt as he strips you. your skin is gooseflesh when he takes you, still holding you down, his hands gripping your wrists. his thrusts hurt worse this time and the air smells terrible, smells _wrong_ but you want more and more and more.

he is not gentle. he does not attempt to be. when he lets go of your wrist and puts his hand around your throat and squeezes at the sides, you put your hand on his wrist and hold on tight. _kill me_ you think, and you'd let him, because you want him to.

but he has other ideas. he calls you terrible names and he's so angry but he doesn't stop until you've found your release, toes curling and heels digging into the floor. and when it's over and you can't move because you hurt, when it's over and he pulls out of you and you're left lying there, he strokes your cheek and kisses you so sweetly. you think you can taste the regret. he's too proud to beg forgiveness but the apology is in how he takes you to his little bed and wipes away blood and your tears.

he cups his hands over a bruise he left on your stomach and you push them away. "leave them."

"but," he takes your hands and lays them at your sides, and tries again; and again you push his hands away, and grab the blanket and wrap yourself up tightly.

"leave them," you repeat, burrowing into the pillows. "please, anders, i want them. leave them there."

he doesn't understand. he's thinking, will you show hawke? will you tell them he held you down, he forced you, will you repeat everything he said? will you tell them you didn't want it?

it's a true act of trust when he strokes your hair and kisses your forehead, and lets you keep them. when he closes the door you light a candle and touch each red mark, poke each bruise, sigh contently. _owned_ , you think. _bought and sold._ you touch yourself remembering and though it produces nothing, it makes you feel good.

he terrifies you. he takes you and breaks you and reassembles you how he likes, and it feels so good that you no longer feel guilty when you recite the chant.

 

v.

 

he's distant, more often than not.

you think it's your fault. he still touches you and talks to you but it's like something has stolen his attention. andraste's mercy but you're weak and you're pathetic and you're afraid; you try so many things to keep him happy, but he only ever seems discontent.

'it's meredith,' he says one day after holding you face-down on his bed and nearly splitting you in two. his fingers work knots out of your back. 'she's ruined everything. she's going to pull this down on our heads, sooner than we want her to.'

you swallow a reaction and press your face into your arms. you want to tell him to stop when his hands smooth over the curve of your ass; you didn't enjoy it as much this time, and he noticed. but he'll think it's because he was so rough and he'll never think it's because you're afraid of losing him, that you think you've already lost him.

you don't tell him to stop when he lays over you and slips his fingers into you. "sebastian," he sounds forlorn. "darling, darling, _please_."

you close your eyes and hope the thing rolling down your cheek isn't a tear. eventually he understands, because he's smart, your brilliant man, and he withdraws and he pulls you close. "do you hate me?"

you want to ask him the same thing. instead you cling as tightly as you can. he moves so you're laying on him and you think you must be too heavy, you're so heavy in his arms. you drag him down.

"just hold me, please," you beg instead. then after a fashion, you say, "i love you," and you hope it sounds earnest because the "i love you"s that you manage to say sound far weaker than the ones that bounce around your head. but it must translate because he softens under you and he sighs, content, and rubs his hands up and down your back and says "i love you, too."

 

vi.

 

there is rubble and smoke and fire. ash falls from the sky like snow. you hear yelling but you don't hear what is yelled and you hear him but you don't think you _hear_ him.

_there can be no compromise._

time exists in a vacuum. you are at once this: standing next to hawke, listening to anders rant, feeling the heat of the explosion and the rain of small stone and ash flakes raining down. anders says: _there can be no peace_. and anders says: _there can be no compromise._ and hawke asks him: _anders, what have you done?_ and then you are baptized in fire and smoke and screaming.

and then it loops again.

there is no escape.

in your mind, you are screaming. loud. you're _horrified_. in your mind you think you lunge, and someone pulls you back. in your mind, always in your _mind_. you fabricate these things to cope because in reality you're wavering in hellfire and you want to lie down in the rubble and _die_.

they will decide his fate. you don't get a say. you should be grateful for this, because inside of you is a war: **kill him** but _spare him._ cut him down where he stands. show him mercy. **there can be no compromise.** they face each other and argue bitterly, but you find your feet moving to a pile of stones. There, something has survived the explosion and the rain and the rubble: a silver plate etched with the visage of fair andraste, her arms spread in welcome and forgiveness.

you look back to the ruins where the chantry stood as though it will provide you with some answer. you look at it's smouldering core and you think: _this place was a shelter_. any other time and you'd go to the chantry and beg the maker and andraste for guidance. on any other day. for any other thing. but there is no sanctum for you to retreat to, not anymore.

"sebastian."

hawke is beside you. they take the plate into their hands and lead you back to the group; in your mind, you resist, pulling away, but always _in your mind_. anders sits on a crate and does not look at you.

"what do we do?"

you realize they're asking you. their voice is soft; they've already decided his fate. but still they look to _you_. they want to hear it from you. they want to pretend the choice was yours.

you think you try to speak, but nothing comes out. maybe your mouth never opens. but your eyes never leave him.

you know what you _should_ do. part of you is loud and angry and you feel betrayed. he knew what the chantry meant to you. he knew what elthina meant to you. and he disregarded it completely. but you look at your hands and imagine blood there and you think about him dead and it already leaves you with a gaping hole in your chest. there are spaces inside of you that he's hollowed out and you think that if he dies, you'll die, too.

somewhere beside you hawke sighs. they're so, so tired. your poor friend. you think about how much they've lost: their sister to the blight, their brother to the wardens, their mother to a murderer, themselves to this wretched city. you think about how you've been quiet and let them shoulder this decision. selfish of you, to not take some of the blame.

selfish of you to not choose between the woman who gave you a new life and the man who buried himself inside of you. you're a collection of impulse and reluctance and unmarked graves.

hawke lets the dagger in their hand drop, and sighs again. "just...go, anders," and for someone so tired they sound so full of conviction. "leave. get out of this city. _get out._ "

anders doesn't move, but hawke does, and aveline and varric. you don't move, either. you stay there as anders rises to his feet, back straight; he can't mask the weariness on his face, but to see him from behind he doesn't look like someone who shouldered the weight of a revolution without being asked.

"sebastian," hawke calls to you, but anders is extending his hand to you. you must look so weak because you flinch away from him, but anders reaches for you still. "sebastian, come on."

"come with me," he says. he looks like he doesn't trust you. maybe he never did. "please, sebastian, come with me."

hawke takes a step toward you.

you look from his hand to his face. his weariness seems to have given way to a look that's terribly sinister. but he's _pleading_ with you. begging.

"anders," hawke's staff is out and they're closer now. "anders, leave him alone."

"he belongs with me." anders says. he doesn't say: _he belongs **to** me_ , because you know you belong to him, and he knows you belong to him, and you wonder when you stopped being you and started being a possession and why you don't protest. you don't _want_ to be his thing. but you crave him and his approval and you'll let him beat you black and blue if it means you can have it. You'll let him break you. You'll let him kill you.

"sebastian," hawke's tone is horrified as you finally, reluctantly, lift your own hand. "don't do this. sebastian, _you don't have to do this._ "

anders takes a small step forward. if he wanted to now, he could kill you. send lightening through you or burn you from the inside out or just simply crush your neck with his bare hands.

"if you do this," hawke stamps the blunt end of their staff onto the ground. "anders, if you take him, i will hunt you down. i will kill you."

hawke could kill him now. could kill you, too. you wonder what's holding them back. is it because you're there, in their line of fire? you, the insignificant thing. laughable reasoning.

you keep your eyes on anders and will your friends to leave. you don't want them to see you like this, fragile and pathetic thing that you are. anders holds your hand like he's holding onto you for dear life and before you know it he's pulling you along, through the rubble, and neither of you look back when hawke cries out your name.

 

vii.

 

you heard a phrase once: barefoot and pregnant. the meaning is lost on you now though you know it couldn't have been entirely good, but you wonder if that's how anders wants you. you can't give him children, of course, but some days he looks at you and you wonder what it'd be like to have them, to find a child who's as alone as the two of you are and given them a family. you'd do it for him, you think, because he would do anything for you.

three years pass.

your hair is long now. thick and wavy, and you keep it tied back almost all the time. he helps you comb comb it one day, and braids it for you and when you lay down that night, when you take the braid out he runs his fingers through it and tells you you're beautiful, and he tells you he would do anything for you, and he would.

he would kill for you.

he already has.

many people have come after you, though mostly for anders; many people have tried to hurt you, or successfully hurt you, and one of them did such terrible things you feel vile two years later.

hawke is not among them. but hawke has their own problems, and you wonder if you'll be running from them forever, while they run from the world forever.

three years pass.

you find a space in the woods, an old, abandoned cottage. the roof is caving in and the walls are dirty and the furniture is too rotten to use. between the two of you, you make it livable, you make it home. you hunt the animals nearby and he gets gold and sometimes you get things by trading with caravans that pass near by. he protects you, and you take care of him.

you heard another phrase, once: chained to the stove.

you know what this one means, and you don't like it for anyone else, but you like it for yourself. he jokes about doing this to you and you laugh, but he's not really joking and you're not entirely reluctant. 'anything to keep you safe,' he tacks on at the end as his hands form to fists. then he moves from where he is, sitting on the bed with his grimoire on his lap, and he comes behind you to put his arms around your waist and kiss your neck.

you ask him, because you're curious, what he means by _anything_. he is silent for a few moments taking deep breaths as you continue to cook, and then finally he says, " _i would drown us in blood to keep you safe._ "

he's completely serious, and makes your skin crawl, but it makes you feel good. and you joke with him saying _that's a little extreme_ , and he laughs, but you're not really joking, and he's one hundred percent serious.

And then he kisses your neck and lets go of your waist, and says, "i'll set the table."


End file.
